His Sexy Sniper Chick
by Ataline
Summary: Preparing for an Al-Qaeda raid, Sam and his buddies discuss the 'ideal woman'.  Allergy warning: May contain Jam.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi guys! I penned up a short onesie because I was bored between classes (boo for back-to-school)._

_As usual I absolutely DO not own Flashpoint. Please don't sue. I'm broke. You wouldn't get much. Some gum wrappers and a half-used roll of duct tape._

_Anyway, read and let me know what you think?_

**...**

The grey hills swelled up, solemn brown buttresses against a sky the colour of gilded gold. The sun was setting, bloody red, chased by the rapidly falling darkness of night. A river snaked through the grassy plain ahead of the rolling knolls, a grey ribbon threading across the land, glinting in the dying light of day. Afghanistan was a land of extremes: flat, lunar deserts stretching before snow capped mountains, summers that scorched and simmer and frigid winters, cities bursting with scents and sights, vast uninhabited strips of land. It was a beautiful land. But dangerous, Sam reminded himself, peering through his gun's scope towards the caverns they'd been sent to investigate.

Al-Qaeda was using the natural caves as a basin of operations – a centre to plan their attacks from, and his unit had been sent to flush them out. Intel had it that Abu Assam, one of Osama's right hand men, had taken up residence in the foothills of the Hindu Kush mountains which only made the timing more opportune.

The small band of special ops officers had been dropped into the unpopulated fields kilometers away, trekking by camouflage through the fields of wheat and grass during daylight and, at night, by the darkness of the clouded, starless skies. It was easy for Sam to imagine the battles that had taken place here – the rushing lines of Alexander's cavalry stampeding across the dry earth, the merciless force of Genghis Khan's marauding tribes pushing west from their home in the Mongolian steppes, the crawling columns of caterpillar like Soviets. Afghanistan had been blessed and cursed by geography. It was a crossroads between east and west, the crux of ancient trade routes and modern politics. Men had strove for generations to control the passage through the rugged land and the abundant resources its borders contained; the country had seen dozens of invasions and immigrations, reaching back thousands of years. Sam glanced over his shoulder at the group of men to his left. He supposed they were only the latest in a long tradition of military interventions in Afghanistan. He could only hope that they were more successful than their predacessors.

They'd reached the craggy ridge overlooking the river valley. The gaping mouths of the cavern were visible, black Dotson the dusty earth. Their site provided good vantage for Sam and Will, the team's other snipers, while the scattering of dense bushes would provide ample cover for the ground forces who would probe into the expansive complex of caves and push out their dangerous occupants.

Their mission would begin in a handful of hours, in the hazy hours of sunrise just before the guards changed shift. The scouts and lookouts would be tired, thoughts turning to sleep once they were replaced by the next round of men. And the rising sun in the hills behind the group of Canadians would blind the Al Qaeda to any movement that his teammates might make. So, until then, they would wait, fingers pressed to triggers, eyes tirelessly scanning the bank of pitted hills, orders burning a hole in their pockets.

A hand pressed to his shoulder. He didn't take his eyes from his scope. Training had taught them never to be unaware. Never be distracted. A body crouched down next to him, stretching out on the hard gravel. Will methodically aligned his own rifle, slipping into position silently and quickly.

'Shift's up." Was all he said. Will was a man of notoriously few words. They'd been on the same team for two years and all he knew about Will outside the job was that he hated tuna casserole and he had a deep affection for fly fishing.

With the other sniper in position, Sam slipped back to rest on his haunches. His muscles ached from the punishing pace of their hike up to their position and from lying, unmoving, on the ground for hours. His legs sang with pain as he stretched them for the first time in what seemed to be an eternity.

Several meters back, shielded from the view by a large grove of miniatures trees and the burned out carcass of what might have been a two-room hut at some point, the rest of his team had established camp. They were a crew of ten comprised from as various backgrounds as possible. While he'd led the somewhat privileged childhood of a general's son, he knew that Marco, the munitions expert, had lived in the gang-controlled area of Jane-and-Finch after his family emigrated to Canada following the violent civil war in their home country of El Salvador. He knew that George, the tech-head, had attended one of the premier boarding schools in Ontario on a gifted scholarship and had passed up a bio-chemical engineering to the University of Toronto to enlist in the army. And Jake, the scrappy baby-faced kid from Surrey, had been bounced through a dozen foster homes before landing in the military. Legend had it he'd been pinching a stereo from a 1995 Buick when the cops had tried to nab him. He'd sprinted down a back alley and, when he realized his path was blocked off by a massive barbed-wire fence, he'd managed to shimmy up a drainpipe, swing across a balcony and roll onto a roof beyond the coppers' reach. But he'd gotten stuck in the sticky tar of the newly re-roofed building. When they finally caught him he'd earned a court date and, somehow, he'd been convinced to put his skills to better use fighting for a cause. They had a medic-turned-JTF, incredibly handy Sam had to admit and a pair of entry-and-tactical experts. And, of course, his best friend Matt.

They'd joined the JTF2 together, completed the half-year assault training course together, been hazed together. They'd saved each other's lives more than once. They'd jumped out of helicopters and airplanes together and drowned heartbreak in a pitcher of beer together. They knew and could anticipate the others' moves. They were, in a sense, a unit within the team. You had to understand all members of your group. You had to know them inside and out – their strengths and weaknesses, their faults and limitations. But his friendship with Matt went beyond that into the realm of brotherhood.

He ducked through the underbrush to hunker down between Matt and Jake. Briefing completed hours before they'd even set off for the site, they each knew their role. Their actions had been choreographed as precisely as possible. Now they had begun to splinter off, to perform their rites and rituals that they'd come to rely upon before major operations. You needed those little gestures. They kept you grounded and sane. Marco had shifted a few feet away from the group, head bent in vigilant prayer. George's eyes were closed, body reclined against his pack. Sam knew he was mentally reciting long division operations. Kept the mind occupied and sharp, he'd always said. Hank was carefully inventorying the medical supplies, counting out bandages. And Luc, the French Canadian tactics specialist, was silently puffing on a Marloboro. At the base they could rarely get the guy to shut up, but on missions he became as lock-lipped as Will.

Jake, on the other hand, would chatter nervously up until the moment their assault began. Silence weighed on him heavily. Gave him too much time to think, Sam supposed. About the men and women you've killed, about the horrors you see, the ones you see over and over again in your head.

The things they were asked to do weren't pretty. They'd had to face child soldiers, the burned wreckage of road-side bomb attacks on civilians. They'd seen the mutilated bodies of the civilians they Taliban saw as expendable, bloating in the hot summer's day. They could smell the acrid scent of burnt flesh in the aftermath of an explosion on the crowded markets of Kabul, blood sprayed across the cluttered and cramped stalls.

Sam supposed most regular soldiers wouldn't be asked to snipe a terrorist leader at their child's birthday party. Sam would always remember the way the pristine white of the child's cake had spattered with his target's blood. The way the child, no older than two, had looked owlishly around as his mother dove to bring him firmly under cover. Those things stuck. So in the silence, waiting for the operation to begin, Jake would tease and prod and poke to avoid having to think of his own demons. Sam couldn't say he minded all that much.

Munching on a bag of dry powered food, he waved a hand. "Man. Look at this sky. My girl would love that. Maybe I'll take her camping when I get home. Out to Algonquin? Yeah." He added dreamily. "She'd like that."

Sam snorted. "Your girlfriend wears six-inch heels and has plastic houseplants. There isn't any way in hell you're going to convince her to roll around in the woods with you so you can have sex against pine trees or on riverbanks or whatever you're thinking."

"It's a thought." Jake shrugged amiably. "How's Amber anyway?" He asked.

"Amber?" Sam asked blankly.

"Amber. Red haired bartender with the butterfly tattoo? Nice ass." He sighed.

"You're a few girls behind there, Jakey." Matt interjected. "He pitched Amber months ago. Scratched up his face pretty badly, didn't she Sam-o? Had claws like a cheetah that one."

"Oh _yeah._" Sam murmured, running his hand over his jaw. "Right."

"Then there was Julie, the psych student from McGill, and Susan, the hairdresser with the yappy dog, and Candi…."

"Wait. You really dated a girl named Candy?" Jake asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sure. Spelt with an 'I' too. Real classy girl." Sam rolled his aching shoulders. "Is this going to become a commentary on all the girls I've ever dated? Because I've got better things to do than do this whole 'memory lane' crap."

"Was Candi a stripper by any chance?" Jake asked snarkily.

"No." Sam answered quickly. Too quickly perhaps.

Matt gave him a disapproving look. "She worked at Hooters." He explained. Jake hooted with laughter.

"Sam. How come you can't keep a girl?" Jake joked, grinning wildly.

"I haven't wanted to." Sam answered truthfully, surprising himself.

"You never met a girl you wanted to stick around?" Jake's brows shot up, disappearing beneath the lip of his helmet.

"Not particularly." He responded, taking a pull from his canteen of water.

"You just haven't met the right girl then, Sam my man." Jake wrapped an arm around his neck companionably and ruffled his short hair. "I got girls galore. I know more girls than I know what to do with. And now that I got Melissa, I'm more than willing to share." He smiled.

"Generous." Sam commented dryly.

"What's your type? What's your ideal woman?" Jake asked.

"Anything that doesn't want to blow us up or think we're heathen scum sounds pretty good right now." Matt mumbled under his breath. "I haven't see female legs in months, man. A nicely muscled thigh, a long and golden calf. God. I'd settle for a little ankle-action right about now."

"You a leg man too Braddock? I've got leggy girls." Jake persisted.

"Not particularly. They don't hurt, for sure." Sam replied noncommittally.

"So what do you like."

"I don't know." He lied. He knew exactly what he wanted and liked. But it was just easier to keep your mouth shut about those kinds of things. The guys would definitely give him grief over that one.

"Seriously? You don't know? Everyone has an ideal woman. I want a woman who looks like Angelina Jolie and cooks like Martha Stewart. She's got a sexy voice and likes some classic rock and roll. She shoots whisky and loves big sloppy dogs. She'd hate horror movies and clowns and is a cuddly drunk." Jake settled back onto the ground, using his crossed arms to cushion his head.

"Good luck with that." Sam snorted.

"Matty?" Jake looked to his friend for support.

"Sure. Redhead with a cute Irish accent who wouldn't cower under my mother's iron glare. She's beautiful and she knows it. Not vain. But … confident. And legs. Miles of them. Tons and tons of leg." He sighed wistfully.

"Come on Sam. Think about it." Jake needled. Sam could see Matt lift an eyebrow in a silent dare.

"Sexy sniper chick." He mumbled.

"What?" Jake sat up in surprise, craning his neck around to stare at Sam. "What did you say?"

"Nothing." Sam said quickly. "Nothing."

"You .. _sexy sniper chick?_" He said incredulously. Then laughed, a deep belly laugh that had Sam's face want to flush red with embarrassment.

"What? You don't think it would be kind of hot to see a woman with a rifle? Just shows she knows how to take control. A woman who can handle a weapon like that…" He defended himself.

"Oh the bad-boy sniper wants a bad-girl sniper." Jake teased. "Girls don't snipe."

"Brenda Miner." Matt supplied helpfully. Not _quite _what Sam was thinking of – he flinched involuntarily.

"Correction. Females who aren't into other females don't snipe." Jake jabbed him with an elbow.

"Sure they do. " Sam retorted. He'd yet to meet one, but he was sure there was one. Out there. Somewhere. Waiting for him.

The conversation turned to sports – and whose team would finally have the guts to pull through and snag the Stanley cup. Hank, finished with his fourth recount of bandages, joined in vying for his favourite – the Sens while Jake and Matt sparred over the Habs and the Flames. But Sam's mind remained fixed on his sexy sniper chick.

He'd thought about it a lot. Head bent low over a scope, coolly evaluating her target. Hands gripped on the body to secure it, long fingers wrapped around the trigger. He could envision it – the way the small hands would look on the rifle. The way it would snug up against her body. The wind would blow through her dark hair – he had a thing for brunettes – bringing her ponytail around to the other side of her face. Maybe it would tease a strand away, and with calm and unshaking hands she'd reach back and tuck it back into the elastic band. So in control. So powerful.

And, best of all, she'd know exactly what it's like to have to take a life. She'd know what it's like to pull that little metal tab and end a life, not in the heat of battle, but from a cool and calculated distance. His targets had no chance. Sometimes they were unarmed and unexpecting. Sometimes they had sub-machine guns and were running forward in a frenzied attack. It didn't make it easier. She'd know what it was like to be the unseen enemy, a kilometer away, shooting at a speck or a movement. She'd know how you have to close yourself down, let the cold come creeping in. She'd know. And that was the most appealing thing about his sexy sniper chick.

He rolled onto his side, staring off into the brush as the stars began to peer out of the night star, peering down at them. Yeah. His sexy sniper chick existed. And, god help him, he'd find her one day.


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: I didn't really intend to write a follow up but I kind of liked how it turned out. Set at the Goose after Follow the Leader. Also - ... I feel guilty admitting this, but this is my 'fake' account. I have another. That I usually use. Which is why I'm so neglectful on this one. Yeeaaaaaah. Anyway. Back to your regular programming!_

The Goose was jammed tonight, patrons squeezed around the bar in a thrumming mob of bodies. Nearly empty pitches of now-warm beer were scattered amid the pint glasses littering the tables and counters. A group of rowdy barely-legal boys, jeans slung low, were tussling over the outcome of a pool game. The barkeep barked out a threat, his look deadly cold, that had them slinking to the counter to pay their tabs. And Team One was gathered their usual place, a table set snuggly back from the bustling crowd.

The day had been long – but they'd done what they'd always meant to. They'd kept the peace. They'd stopped an Aryan Brethren plot to murder dozens of civilians. And they'd saved a lost and angry kid from doing something that he wouldn't even live long enough to regret. Thanks to the team, and Sam's persistence, that kid would have the chance to grow old. The opportunity to change his life. He'd have a future.

So they sat around the table at the Goose, toasting their success and thanked their lucky stars that the asshole kid with the rifle hadn't had better aim. Or Greg wouldn't have just taken a pair of bullets to the arm and the vest.

Sam shuddered at the thought, lifting his frosted glass to his lips to clear the bitter taste in his throat.

He'd redeemed himself, in a way. He hadn't been able to save Kovacs, his stomach sunk with the memory. But he had been able to save Trent. And that was still something.

"Sam!" He heard his name called. The voice, like from beyond the grave.

He shot to his feet, the chair falling to the floor behind him. Almost instantly he was tackled in a bear hug so tight he couldn't breathe.

"Jake." He exclaimed heartily, thumping the other man on the back. "It's been a long time."

"Too long." Jake grinned back at him. "Far, far too long, brother."

"This your new team?" He asked, glancing around the table. "Couldn't get rid of the bastard for three whole freaking years," Jake announced, grinning, to the group. He ploughed a pointy elbow into Sam's gut. "Then, bam, we wake up onemorning and there's this gawky white boy from Winnipeg sleeping in Sam's bunk."

Sam cringed inwardly. He had always regretted that he hadn't told his teammates himself that he was leaving. It had been such a quick decision. They'd sent Matt's body home and, not two hours later, his father had made the offer. He'd felt pressured. Angry. Sam had wanted a way out and his father had handed him one. Nothing would have been the same anyway. The unit was falling apart at the seams. He knew he was the reason the trust was gone.

When he'd seen Will again, as a special-ops consultant at the SRU, he'd known he'd made the right choice. For himself, yes, but also for his men. In a unit like theirs you needed the team to have complete unity – complete faith in every other man. And with him, they couldn't. Not when he'd killed one of their own.

"How long did my replacement last?" He asked jokingly.

"Just under three days. His replacement lasted four weeks. And his, less than 24 hours." Nobody could fill your shoes, Samm-o." Jake ruffled his hair. It was like nothing had changed at all.

"You going to introduce the boy or what?" Greg asked, watching them with owl-like eyes, brows lifted in question.

"Team, this is Corporal Jake Naganis. We, uh, served together in Afghanistan. Both tours, actually." Sam said, keeping an arm around his friends' shoulders.

"Jake. This is my boss, Sergeant Greg Parker. Ed Lane. Wordy. Jules and Spike." He said, each member giving a quick nod as their name was spoken.

"So, y'all are the big bad urban coppers, keeping the mean streets of Toronto safe?" Jake asked surveying the bunch, assessing his old friends' new colleagues.

"Yep." Greg said, leaning forward. "You got the rest of the world – we're just patrolling our own back yard. Keeping the peace."

Jake seemed satisfied with this idea.

"You involved in taking down the racist sons of bitches who tried to take out the department of immigration today?" Jake asked.

"Yes. We were." Ed answered. "Sam here was the one who talked the bomber down." He jerked a thumb in his direction.

"Talked 'em down? As in … negotiating? Long way from shooting Al Qaeda." Jake remarked.

_Deeds, not words._ The infamous motto. Sam couldn't have gotten any further from it, really.

"Kid was just confused and lost. He was being manipulated by a hateful bastard. He just needed somebody to understand. He needed somebody to listen. We all walked away safely. Including the kid with the bomb." Sam shrugged. Trent had needed to know that love, and life, were more important than hate. And, even when he felt alone, he wasn't. He'd always have his family.

"Not going to lie, I'd probably have been tempted to pull the trigger."

"I was. But then again, the bomb had a deadman's trap." Jules said, sardonic smile inching across her face.

"You were covering Sam?" Jake asked, turning his brown eyes on hers. Jules' squirmed under the attention. Something in his eyes unnerved her.

"In a manner of speaking." She frowned.

"You're a sniper?" Jake asked, sliding a sly glance at Sam who sifted uncomfortably. Sam covered his friends' boot with his own and slowly pressed down on the insole in what Jake would _know _was a painful warning to keep his damn mouth shut. Sam prayed he'd heed his silent threat.

"Yes. Is that a problem?" Jules cocked her head.

"No. I'm just … impressed. Your skills must be extraordinary if they're pulling Sam. Best shot in the division." Jake said, his face split ear to ear by a massive grin.

"I'm damned good." Jules responded casually, relaxing now.

"Looks like you're empty." Sam said, waving his hand in the direction of Jake's empty pint glass. "Lemme get a round. For old time's sake." He grabbed his friend by the elbow and with a quick nod to the team, dragged him towards the bar.

"Sexy sniper chick, eh?" Jake whispered under his breathe to Sam as the team shifted to accommodate the newcomer.

"Shut up." Sam hissed in return. "Don't say anything." He motioned his order to the bartender

"I just can't believe you found one. She's _smokin'_ too." Jake whistled under his breath. "Trust you."

"Yeah. Well. She's a teammate." Sam said briskly.

Jake rolled his eyes. "If you honestly think that then you're not the man I thought you were."

"Okay. Yeah. There was a time when…. But that's over. That's well over."

"What happened?" Jake asked, leaning against the bar and turning to casually survey the woman in question once more. Maybe he wouldn't like her so much, he thought. Not if she'd hurt Sam.

"Came down to me or the job. She picked the SRU." He said collecting their beers from the bartender.

"Ouch." He exclaimed.

"Listen. She's a friend. A good friend. Don't say anything. Nobody else knows. And we want to keep it that way. The team's got to stick together. They could tear us apart over this." Sam warned him. From the corner of his eye Jake saw Jules look over. He caught the slight frown and the quick glance away when she realized he'd seen her.

_Interesting. _Jake thought as they meandered back towards Team One's table.

"Well. You've done worse." Jake lifted a shoulder in resignation.

"What's this?" Wordy asked, leaning forward to catch their conversation.

Jake met Sam's eyes and winked. "Sam ever tell you he dated a girl named Candi? Spelt with a I?"

"Whoah. Seriously Sam?" Spike asked. "Was she a stripper?"

"No!" Sam protested all too quickly. Jules rolled her eyes, but not before Jake caught the moment of jealousy that flashed across her face. _Very interesting, indeed_. Jake sent Sam a bland look.

"She was an extremely high-class waitress at a well-respected family establishment." Sam scrambled to explain.

"She worked at Hooters." Jake cross his arms and leaned back, his voice as dry as dust.

"Good to see you too, Jake." Sam muttered darkly.


End file.
